


Another Time, Another Place

by janto321 (FaceofMer)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Homeless, Angst with a Happy Ending, Homeless John, Homeless Sherlock, Homelessness, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Nightmares, PTSD John, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rescue, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 21:45:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14387754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer/pseuds/janto321
Summary: John is living on the streets the day he rescues Sherlock Holmes from a suicide attempt.





	Another Time, Another Place

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this](http://merindab.tumblr.com/post/173101476219/still-from-cargo-x-this-picture-is-gorgeous-and), with a bit of nudging from WilliethePlaidJacket

Cartilage gave way beneath John’s fist. His opponent staggered and fell back, staying down as the crowd around them cheered or murmured. Probably he had made some people some money tonight; nobody ever expected the smaller man to win. Quickly, he collected his winnings and made his way out a back door before anyone could congratulate him.

Stepping out, he could see the first pink of dawn lighting the sky. John picked a direction and started walking. This wasn’t supposed to be his life, wandering and fighting and surviving, but what was supposed to be had been left behind in the Afghan soil.

There was blood on his knuckles and his hand throbbed slightly. John ignored both things for the moment, wanting to find somewhere he could rest for a few hours and not be bothered.

He could smell water nearby. A river, probably. John hardly paid attention to what city or town he was in anymore. His feet gravitated towards it as if drawn by some primal instinct. There was tiny alley a few feet from a dock, barely big enough for the name. John slid into it and wedged himself between the walls in the semi-darkness, wincing as he disturbed a fresh bruise. He tucked his head against his knees and closed his eyes.

The memory of violence shook John awake long before he could be fully rested. There were people on the pavement now, morning sunlight bright outside this tiny shelter. Carefully, mindful of his aching joints, John unfolded himself and stretched, scratching at his beard. His stomach reminded him he should eat, though for the moment he ignored it, checking his pocket to make sure the winnings were still there.

From practice, John slipped out into the morning crowd without attracting attention. He wandered along the waterfront for a while before buying a sandwich from a vendor and making his way back to the dock. He sat and watched the water, eating mechanically and only because his body demanded it.

Finished, he leaned on the railing, dozing off a bit in the sun. Nobody bothered him, life continued on around him, barely taking notice of his presence.

John stirred as a cool breeze ruffled his hair, sitting up and stretching his stiff back, rubbing his eyes and noticing the dried blood on his knuckles. He looked around and found the place nearly abandoned, people vanished like ghosts. Part of John wondered if they’d ever really been there in the first place.

Leaning on the railing again he looked out at the slow-moving water. Not for the first time he wondered what it would be like to simply throw himself in and sink. No one would miss him. No one would note his passing except whatever poor bastard found his body. Perhaps that was a good enough reason not to do it.

Footsteps stirred him from his morose reverie. He looked up and caught a glimpse of a thin man walking rather determinedly to the edge of the dock. Before John could move, he stepped off, splashing loudly.

Without hesitation, John jumped in after him, locking his arms around the man’s chest and pulling him back towards the dock. The man flailed as if determined to drown, but John manhandled them both back onto land.

He glared at John, clearly at least a bit high. “You’re a homeless veteran who was contemplating suicide a moment before preventing mine,” he spat out.

John smiled, keeping one hand on the stranger’s wrist to prevent him from making another attempt at the river.

The man’s brow furrowed. “You come from a family of alcoholics which is why you’ve not sought help from family. You were injured and have a pension, but it wasn’t enough and you felt undeserving of it, so you haven’t been collecting it, despite the fact that you’ve come near to starvation more than once. And really as a man who was once a doctor, surely you can see that you’re being irrational in not accepting the resources available to a man with your background.”

John laughed, causing the stranger to study his face as if he’d missed something. “That’s brilliant,” said John, reaching out without thinking to brush damp curls from the man’s eyes. “I bet you haven’t eaten in a while, yeah? Come on.”

Carefully, John got to his feet, helping the other man up. Quite possibly this stranger was more than a bit crazy in addition to the drugs, but he’d also been accurate. For the first time in a very, very long time, John felt seen. And he wanted to keep this man by his side. “John Watson,” he said, leading away from the river.

“Sherlock Holmes.” He stayed close by, as if feeling his own strange connection.

They headed deeper into town. Sherlock suddenly frowned and grabbed John’s wrist, drawing him into an alleyway. 

For reasons he couldn’t explain, John trusted him, keeping almost preternaturally still as they watched the mouth of the alley. Sherlock’s hand was warm around his wrist, the connection nearly burning. John’s heart thrummed in his chest but he was calm in the face of danger.

Sherlock’s breath was steady. After a few minutes he nodded and pulled John farther down the alley. He ducked into a building and John found himself in the back of a restaurant. His stomach reminded him he’d only eaten one thing today as they breathed in the scent of food.

“Ah, Sherlock.” One of the chefs came around a corner and took them both in. “Go on, upstairs.”

Sherlock nodded and pulled John along, up a flight of nearly hidden stairs and into a storeroom cluttered with chairs and decorations a decade out of date. He closed the door nearly all the way and plopped down on the floor. “We’re safe here.”

“Are you on the run from someone?” John was surprised at how quickly he felt protective of this man, but he did.

“In a manner of speaking. Sit, Jorge will bring us some food soon and then we can sleep here tonight.”

John pulled out some damp cash. “I can pay…”

“I’ve done Jorge some favors, there’s no need.”

John looked at him, then stuffed the money back into his pocket, carefully taking a seat. The cold water had seeped into his trousers and his knee was beginning to bother him.

Sherlock watched him in the semidarkness.

John settled and leaned against the wall. “All that stuff you said about me. You’re right, but how did you know?”

Sherlock was quiet a long minute and John almost despaired of getting an answer by the time he finally spoke. “You’ve tried to keep up appearances to some extent, but you’re obviously homeless. So you’re resigned to your status, but also a bit ashamed of it. You’ve got access to some money, but don’t touch it save perhaps a haircut and a change of clothes. Given your age, military pension makes the most sense. You jumped into a river after a stranger with no hesitation, suggesting a strong moral fiber, which also points at someone with a selfless disposition. Given the faded calluses on your hands, doctor. Which also goes with the military pension; your injury limited your ability to resume the job in a civilian capacity.”

“You really are amazing,” said John, looking at his own hands, squeezing his left as he noticed a faint tremor. “What about the alcoholism?”

“You’re homeless, but don’t touch alcohol or drugs. You’ve seen what it can do to a family.” 

John nodded. “And you got all of that with a glance?”

“I observe,” said Sherlock, a note of pride his voice. “As for the suicidal thoughts, it was in the way you were sitting when I approached the dock.”

John shifted his leg, trying to get comfortable. “Why did you jump in?” he asked quietly. “Trying to get my attention or did you want to sink?”

Sherlock was again quiet. “I wanted to sink,” he admitted. “And it was more a stroll than a jump.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, Sherlock Holmes, I’m glad I happened to be handy.” John rubbed his bad shoulder.

Getting up, Sherlock moved to John’s side and began to massage the old injury. “I believe I am glad for it as well.”

John smiled, enjoying a touch that wasn’t accidental or violent. The muscle started to loosen and he found he could breathe easier.

The door opened the rest of the way and a child of no more than ten pushed open the door, carrying a box. “Oh. Sherlock, you have a friend?”

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it.

“Yes, he does,” answered John. “I’m John.”

“Javier. Here, dad wanted me to bring you some dry clothes. I’ll bring supper in a little bit.”

“Thank you,” said John, earning a small smile as the boy ducked back out.

Reluctantly, John moved from Sherlock’s grasp and started unbuttoning his shirt. Sherlock pulled out clothes for him, then turned back. “May I help?”

John nodded, again wondering at the trust he felt. But Sherlock was gentle about peeling off the shirt, mindful of the shoulder. John struggled to his feet with Sherlock’s help and got out of his trousers, long past any concern for modesty.

Picking up a towel, Sherlock dried him before helping him into the fresh clothes.

“Do you need any…?” asked John.

Sherlock shook his head and quickly divested himself. John couldn’t help but notice the leanness of his body, the angles, and, of course, the track marks on his arms.

“I don’t have any drugs presently,” said Sherlock, without looking at him.

John pulled the damp money out of his original trousers. “I figured.”

Sherlock collected their wet things and hung them up to dry on the outdated furniture. Javier appeared as he finished and dropped off a tray, then vanished again.

“Eat, John,” said Sherlock, pulling the tray over.

“You too.”

The food was some of the best John had had in a long time. Now that he was warm and full he felt sleep tugging at his limbs. “I’ll have nightmares,” he warned, yawning and stretching out on the floor.

“I’ll be here.” 

John nodded, feeling utterly safe as he drifted off.

**

Groaning, John jerked awake a short time later. To his surprise, Sherlock laid down along his side and gathered him in his arms. By the time John’s breath gradually slowed Sherlock had fallen asleep. 

John turned his head and studied Sherlock’s face. Asleep, Sherlock looked younger. John’s shaking hand brushed his curls back. This was utterly mad, to trust anyone this way. But it felt more right than anything else in a very long time. 

Breathing slowly, John settled Sherlock’s head onto his shoulder and closed his eyes. A homeless vet with buckets of PTSD and a junkie with an amazing mind. He’d heard of stranger pairings. 

John remembered a couple he’d met in his first year on the streets. One of them was more than half out of his mind off his meds, but his partner loved him regardless. John had done what he could for them before moving on. He’d run across the more sane one a few months later and learned his partner had been arrested and sent to a mental health facility. His other half had no rights to see him and he missed him terribly, but he stayed close by, hoping against hope that he could see him again. John sincerely prayed that he would. He liked to imagine the two of them living in a cheap flat somewhere, staying on meds for the one, both of them healthy and safe. He also knew that more likely one or both of them were dead.

He held Sherlock a little tighter, kissing his temple, silently swearing that he’d keep that from happening to them. Sherlock snuggled a little closer and sighed. John found sleep again, warmed by Sherlock by his side. As if he belonged there. As if he’d always been there. 

**

John woke in the morning to find he’d had a restful sleep for the first time in years. Sherlock brought in a plate of food for both of them. John sat up and rubbed his eyes. 

Sherlock sat, looking a little anxious, as if John would vanish with the dawn. John put a hand on his arm. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Biting his lip, Sherlock studied his face. “I don’t understand.”

John shrugged. “Can’t say I do either, but I’d sooner rip my own heart out then leave you behind.”

Sherlock nodded. He sat close to John and they ate quietly off the same plate. 

**

When they finished breakfast, John and Sherlock changed back into their now-dry clothes. John left a little bit of money, following Sherlock down the stairs and back into the alley. They shared a look and Sherlock led the way into the city.

They spent the day just wandering. John listened as Sherlock deduced the people around them, fascinated and seeing the city in a new light. The world seemed brighter today, the sound of his own laughter startled his ears.

As the day began to draw to a close John found they were again by the same dock where they’d met. He walked over and leaned against the railing, back to the water.

Sherlock looked at him, taking in the way the fading sunlight seeped into his ash blond hair.

Without speaking, Sherlock stepped forward and kissed him gently. If this had been anyone else, John would have shoved him away. As it was, John bunched Sherlock’s coat in his hands and kissed him back. The final puzzle piece slid into place.

They broke apart, smiling softly at one another, only to be interrupted by approaching footsteps. Sherlock swung around, frowning at the man in a suit approaching them. Something about him raised John’s hackles and he stepped in front of Sherlock, fists clenched.

The man stopped a few feet away, raising an eyebrow at them.

“Go away,” grumbled Sherlock.

John moved closer. The stranger examined his umbrella. “I have something to speak to you about, Sherlock.”

“I don’t care.”

John took another step closer to the man. “I believe he told you to leave.”

The man regarded him cooly. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“It does,” said John, hands steady. “If it concerns Sherlock, it concerns me.”

“You only met him 24 hours ago. You have no idea who he is.” He met John’s gaze.

John smiled dangerously. “I know all I need to know. I believe he asked you to leave.”

The man took a step closer, as if trying to intimidate him. “You have no idea who I am, John Watson.”

“Don’t care. Come any closer and I’ll have you flat on your back.”

“Violence? Really? Sherlock, is this truly the company you wish to keep?” He shifted just a bit closer and John swung. To his surprise the hook of the umbrella yanked his legs out from under him and it was John that landed on his back with a grunt, wind knocked out of him.

“Don’t hurt him,” Sherlock quickly moved to help him up. “John, this is my brother, Mycroft. He thinks he knows what’s best for me.”

“If your companion,” he said the word distastefully, “is quite finished posturing, I rather hope you’ll listen to me.”

“Fine, say your piece and leave.” Sherlock glared at him, keeping a hand on John’s arm to prevent him from taking another swing.

Mycroft sighed and took out an envelope. “That rather nice policeman that tried to work with you a few years back is stuck on a case and willing to give you another chance.”

“He won’t work with me unless I’m sober,” growled Sherlock.

“Have you used today?” asked Mycroft mildly, as if they were speaking about something utterly banal.

“I…” Sherlock hesitated and glanced at John. “No.”

“Here are the keys to 221B Baker Street.” Mycroft held out the envelope. “As well as phones for both of you. Mrs. Hudson is expecting you, but might I suggest a shower before contacting Inspector Lestrade?”

Sherlock snatched the envelope from him and stuffed it into his own pocket.

Mycroft fixed John with a look. “I do hope you’ll continue to mind him, Captain Watson.”

John frowned. “I’m not his minder. And you might have my records, but you don’t know anything about me.”

“I know all I need to know,” echoed Mycroft. ”Goodnight.” He turned and walked away.

Sherlock waited until Mycroft was out of sight, then visibly relaxed and looked at John. “How does solving crimes sound?”

“Interesting, at least.”

“Come on, might as well see this flat and what Lestrade wants.” He gave John a small smile. “Could be dangerous.”

“Good.” John met his gaze steadily. Without needing to speak they turned in unison and headed down the road. Side by side and just where they needed to be.

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks to beltainefaire and humshappily for looking it over. And TheArtStudentYouHate and lmirandas for encouragement
> 
> You can find me on twitter and tumblr at merindab


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